Remnants of Ravens
by c1araoswa1d
Summary: Breadcrumbs left aboard the Tardis lead Bill to question the Doctor about previous companions.


He lets her wander about the Tardis sometimes, when his mind's too wrapped up in some thought to travel, or when she says she needs the space to think about one of his lectures, or one of their 'adventures's, but Bill suspects he hasn't a clue about what she finds. There's the library that's too posh and the swimming pool that's ridiculous and the telescope that looks like something out of a science fiction movie with aliens... which she could find amusing if her whole life the past few months weren't like something out of a science fiction movie with aliens.

She presumes he knows the rooms because it's his ship, but there's a knick here and a knack there that catch her eye now and again. Things that shouldn't be there because she hadn't brought them aboard and she knows they're not his. A paddle brush lying in a corner where it'd fallen during some travel, long strands of dark brown hair caught in its bristles; a flowery patterned journal about travels with the Doctor scribbled in tediously, slipped between the tomes around the console; a pale blouse too new that still smells of a sweet fragrance – draped over a chair – forgotten in a rush; a stack of papers in a bag under a desk, marked red and carrying a date too recent to go unnoticed.

"You cheatin' on me? Travellin' with someone else when I'm not around?"

Bill asks the questions on an awkward laugh, lips twisted into a lop-sided grin, fingers picking at nothing on the back of the chair settled in front of his desk. Her eyes avoid his just as his avoid hers, and he fiddles with his Sonic as he shrugs and pulls a face. She wishes she could decipher his face to know what goes on in the mind behind it. Sometimes she thinks no one can. Perhaps it's one of his alien powers, she considers, trying to ease the tension out of her shoulders as she waits for his answer.

"None that I'm aware," he scoffs, trying to press a smile into his lips as he meets her nervous gaze.

Gesturing back at the Tardis, she asks, "But there've been others, right?"

"Of course there've been others," he replies matter-of-factly, hand coming up, "I'm two thousand years old; you don't honestly expect me to just sit around talking to myself, do you?"

Dropping her eyes to the desk, she offers, "Thought that's why you built Nardole."

"Built..." the Doctor begins before his eyes close and he sighs, "No."

"So, who was she, huh?" She smiles, and she hates that her voice squeaks from nerves she'd never admit to, and she rounds the chair, slumps into it, presses elbows into the edge of the desk to wait for his story. The Doctor always had a story. Except this time he simply stares inquisitively at a photo on his desk. She wants to twist it around to get a good look – not that she hasn't snuck one before. The one with the hair, she thinks with a smirk. Not really his type, she considers as he remains silent.

His eyebrows lift, as though shifting out of some trance and he offers a sad smile. "That's the question, isn't it?"

It wasn't the answer she was hoping for, and she wonders just how much she should press it. There had been times in class that his eyes had wandered to a spot in the back of the room, as though he were waiting for someone there, someone who never appeared. She didn't know if anyone else noticed, or if they simply took his pause as space for consideration of his words instead of the longing ache of a missing bit of one's soul they never quite recaptured. He was doing it then, looking to the door behind her as if someone might pop in.

Bill knew he wasn't waiting on Nardole.

"Did she die?"

The question is out before she can stop it, finger giving the photograph a tap and then recoiling, seeing the way those eyes turn cold. An instant snap into focus on her that freezes her breath and reminds her of the way he stares at the enemies they've encountered.

"Just thought it was a valid question, seeing as the stuff we do while travelling isn't exactly a like taking a trip to the mall," she manages to mutter, shrinking into the chair and wishing she'd never brought it up.

"She died," he states before adding, "It had nothing to do with our travels."

"Oh," Bill replies simply.

The Doctor continues to stare and she imagines this might be the best time to head home, or to the library or just anywhere, but she feels like a pupil waiting to either be scolded or dismissed, and so she sits dutifully. She stares at the edge of the desk as he gets lost in thought in a way that makes Bill think he's left himself _for a mo_ , and then he slumps back in the chair, half turns and turns back again, and raises a hand as if grasping for an apple.

Raising her eyes to him, she watches him open his mouth to start a sentence before dropping his head back to close it, lips set in a thin line. His eyes don't water, his cheeks don't redden, his breathing doesn't shift in the slightest. If he's about to tell her how this woman died – this woman important enough to have her photo atop his desk – he doesn't seem overwrought about it.

"She died, and there was nothing I could do about it except give her more time in the end."

They sit in silence, listening to the ticking of a clock and the creek of the floor board outside as Nardole walks past, muttering about sausages. And then Bill ponders aloud, "You, with your fancy title, from your alien planet, with your buzzy gadget.."

"Sonic Screwdriver," he corrects

Bill continues, "In your spacey time machine, and your endless knowledge... there was _nothing_ you could do about it?"

She almost sounded angry; she supposed she was.

"We've had this argument before," he reminds flippantly.

They had, she knew, but this was different. It _felt_ different. This wasn't some random street kid; someone the Doctor didn't know. "There's bits of her all over the Tardis, memories, and you just ignore them. Seen you walk right past her stuff – that how you deal with it when it's someone you know? Just the same as someone you don't. Worse even… you just _forget_ them."

His brow drops, and his head tilts, like a dog who's heard a strange noise. It makes Bill uncomfortable as he questions, "Sorry, say again?"

"Sorry," she groans, "I imagine it's a pain thing. Blokes don't handle that..."

Shifting and pointing, he closes his eyes and hisses, "No, no, say it again."

Swallowing roughly, Bill nods, then explains, "Her things are all over the Tardis. Keep finding them in random places, and it's like you don't notice – you _should_ notice. Pack it up and toss it, or put it away for safe keeping. Like normal people do."

Bill almost laughs; the Doctor was anything but normal.

She notices his attention is now on the Tardis and there's something distant about the look in his eyes, Bill thinks, as though he were seeing through time to those objects and how they got to where they were. Maybe, she ponders, maybe he knows exactly where it all is and he leaves it all where it sits to pretend time hasn't passed. To pretend that maybe she's still walking about the ship, just around the next corner. Maybe she's combing that long dark hair, or making a new entry to her journal in the old lounge chair it sits next to, or slipping on that blouse, or gathering up those papers she's graded.

Maybe she'll meet him at the end of class after a long day.

"Did I miss something," Bill offers.

The Doctor looks to his desk, and huffs a laugh, responding lightly, "No, but I might have."

He then stands and begins a brisk walk towards his box; penguin smoldering.

"What's _her_ name?" Bill asks tentatively as she stands, moving slowly around the desk to get a look at the photograph sitting there, just beside one he's shown her before – one he stated firmly was his granddaughter, Susan – and she looks up as the Doctor slows to a stop, opening the right door to the Tardis.

"Oh, that's River," he breathes inconsequentially, just before he enters.

Bill falls into his seat, still warm from his presence and she frowns at the photograph, thinking on how the brush couldn't possibly be hers. Perhaps, she considered, vision shifting from the photo to the carving of the raven she often found the Doctor studying, perhaps none of it belonged to her. There was more, Bill knew, to the Doctor's story, and she thought about the journal she'd respected enough to leave be, uttering, "I thought her name was Clara."


End file.
